


Sick

by TheMadNoodler



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Implied Cannabalism, Implied Murder, M/M, Oneshot, Relationship on a more emotional level, implied gore, non-romantic, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:07:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMadNoodler/pseuds/TheMadNoodler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is sick. Sick in the stomach. Sick in the heart. Most of all, he’s sick in the head and it can only be cured by something he can't have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick

**Author's Note:**

> So this is how I announce my entrance into the Hannibal fandom. Yes, I ship Hannigram and I wanted to try something on a less romantic/sexual level but tbh I'm not really happy with this fic. I might rewrite it but its 12:20 am and I'm going to bed so any Fannibals out there, leave a comment below!

Although he is unable to see anything in this inky blackness, it isn’t a problem. He’s walked this path so often it’s been burned behind his eyelids. His sharp breathing is loud in his ears, his heartbeat louder, and he can barely feel the sting of the cold when the wind kisses his cheeks and the snow falls to form a frozen crown a top his head. Above him, the housetops loom ominously in his vision before abruptly falling away, blending in with the rest of the muffled, monochrome world. The backpack is leaden with goods but it’s not the backpack that weighs so heavily on his shoulders. It’s the responsibility for the contents inside that burden him so.

When he finally manages to pry his eyes open and away from his forearm, he notices the smallest of lights winking tantalisingly in the dark.  Its glow gives him a surge of energy and he pushes forwards against the silent protest of the contents inside his bag.

The door opens just as he reaches and there, basked in the light like a wingless angel stands the man with the copyrighted name. The man who opens his arms in a welcoming gesture, the ghost of a smile just touching his lips.

“Welcome, Mr. Graham.”

Will returns the greeting by punching Hannibal square in the jaw. Hannibal’s head snaps to the side and he stumbles backwards. He takes his time looking back, a lazy smile curving his lips. It only further infuriates Will, who throws another punch. This time, Hannibal catches Will by the wrist, and uses his momentum to send his fist into Will’s face. Legs are swept out from under Hannibal who falls, still clutching onto Will’s wrist.

Will took the advantage of his position to pummel Hannibal repeatedly, angry growls thrumming in his chest. His vision swam before him, and he was no longer able to tell the difference between the red of his anger and the red of the spilled blood, old or new.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he was in fact crying, until he felt warmth blossom on his left cheek.  A half-sob escaped past his lips and his fists slowly stilled until they rested on Hannibal’s chest. A thumb continued to wipe away the continuous stream of tears, flowing down Will’s face.

“Have you finished, Will?” His cheek was beginning to swell and it made it hard for Hannibal to properly pronounce his s’. Will merely sniffed in return, and flinched when the acrid metallic smell of blood promptly assaulted his nose. “If you have, I would certainly be most grateful if you allowed me up off this rather undignified position on the floor.”

“Now then,” Hannibal said, using his handkerchief to wipe the blood of his face. “Would you care for a drink?” The last of his anger ebbing away, Will nodded and followed Hannibal into the kitchen upon where he received a beer. Its frigidness served well in soothing his burning palms and he pressed his bloody knuckles against the cool glass, hissing faintly as he did so.

“I take it they aren’t bloodied because of me.” Will shook his head. “Are they the reason you, very rudely might I add, assaulted me upon greeting?”  Will’s silence was an answer enough. “I see. How do you feel?”

Will snorted. “How _do_ I feel, I wonder. How did _you_ feel, Doctor Lecter, when you looked in that little girl’s eyes? When you felt the life spurt out of her as you slit her throat? Did you take delight it in, Doctor?”

“I felt remorse.” Hannibal said, after a pause. “She would have made a very nice spring lamb.”

“You’re a monster.”

“You already knew that.”

Will curled his lip in disgust as he carelessly threw the bag at Hannibal’s feet. “There’s your spring lamb. I’ll be waiting in the dining room.” So he left, attempting to bottle away his anger as he seated himself in front of the table. He didn’t look up as he heard the soft clicks of Hannibal’s shoes languidly making their way towards him. One hand tangles itself in his hair while the other slid under his chin, slowly tilting his head back. He was met with a slight smile.

Too often Will had found his eyes on Hannibal’s lips. The way they turned up into a smile, or closed ever so softly around food, lips pursed as the flavour sunk in. Thanks to his creative imagination, it wasn’t hard to fantasise those same lips pressing against Will’s,  tasting him the same way Hannibal tasted his food.

“Why?” The question painfully soft, not dissimilar from the same texture of Hannibal’s lips that Will would’ve felt had the other man not pull away.

“Need you really to ask that question?” Will sighed. He knew the answer of course but that didn’t mean he didn’t disagree with the reasoning.

“Just because it’s been overused as an act of seduction and therefore manipulation, doesn’t mean it can’t hold feeling when it comes to our type of relationship.”

“Oh?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “And what is our ‘type’ of relationship, Will?”

“Betrayal and forgiveness; something akin to love.”

Hannibal smiled. “But never love itself.”

Will placed his bottle on the table before wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s neck, lacing his fingers together behind his neck. He pulled the other man close, his breath ghosting the shell of Hannibal’s ear. Then a whisper so soft and sweet and full of unspoken emotion; a hidden meaning that would only be uncovered by the man who’s thought process was so alike yet so woefully different.

“That is our design.”


End file.
